‘I still love her.’
Ryderbeit cackled. ‘Don’t be bloody soft! What do you plan on doing? Running down to the Chesa and duffing up that Arcy-James bastard, then carrying the maiden off on your white steed to faraway parts?’ He slapped Packer on the shoulder. ‘What you need is a bloody good drink.’
‘Maybe I do.’ For the first time Packer realized how thirsty he was. Ryderbeit was back on a triple Scotch and had lit up one of his coronas. His ordeal, which he had briefly described to Packer, had left him uncannily calm.
‘What upsets me is the way she used us,’ Packer said bleakly.
‘Shit! She didn’t use us — we used her. And Charlie Pol used all of us. But enough of your Miss Sarah bloody Laval-Smith. She’s history. We’ve got to think of ourselves now. My route’s blocked — no trains while they bring up the rescue teams. It’ll have to be the car. What’s your reckoning on how long they’ll take to put up road blocks?’
‘Well, there was a chopper on the spot right away — but my guess is they’ll be looking for a party of the Ruler’s compatriots, or for some of his Arab neighbours. They can’t detain every tourist in Klosters and Davos.’ He called to the barman for Ryderbeit’s bill, and bought a couple of bottles of Apfelsaft for the journey.
‘Come on, let’s go.’
The road down to Landquart was an almost continuous queue of traffic both ways. At intervals police cars stood with flashing blue beacons, but no one was as yet inspecting any vehicles going down except for the odd casual glance.
Ryderbeit chuckled. ‘If any of those Arabian fat cats are holidaying up here, I guess they’re likely to spend a nice few hours with the boys in grey!’
‘We haven’t considered the Ruler’s own boys,’ said Packer.
‘They’ll probably be running around chasing their tails. With the big bossman dead, they’ll be like a swarm of bees when the queen’s been knocked off.’
Packer nodded dubiously, as a policeman waved them on. ‘I suppose you’re right. The chain of command goes back to Mamounia, and I doubt there’s anyone big enough here to take any immediate decisions. They’ll be too busy worrying about him being dead.’
‘Holy Moses, he’s dead all right!’ Ryderbeit said, and settled back in his seat to light another cigar.
It took them nearly four hours to cover the forty kilometres to Landquart; but here the traffic suddenly dispersed as they joined the stretch of autoroute past Sargans, on the main road to Zürich.
‘Are we clean?’ said Ryderbeit at last.
Packer glanced again in the mirror. ‘For the moment.’
Ryderbeit sat stroking his hairless chin. ‘When it comes to a diversion, soldier, an avalanche takes a lot of beating.’ He paused, then gave a shout. ‘Holy Moses, we’ve been forgetting something!’ And he switched on the radio above his knees, pressing several buttons until he found a channel in French.
The voice was speaking with the hurried, improvised tone of an announcer whose scheduled programmes have been cancelled, to make way for up-to-the-minute news flashes. Full details of the avalanche were still uncertain, although it was officially confirmed that at least thirty people were dead and many more missing.
After a number of contradictory interviews with eye witnesses, the announcer broke in with an official bulletin:
‘The authorities are also investigating the report of two shots, which witnesses heard fired a few seconds before the avalanche commenced. It has not been established where these shots came from, or who was responsible, but rumours that they were fired by soldiers of the Swiss army on local manoeuvres have been rigorously denied by the military authorities. The police, meanwhile, are conducting intensive investigations. We will be bringing you further instant coverage of the Davos-Klosters catastrophe as soon as we receive news.’
The voice gave way to rather unseemly light music. Ryderbeit said, ‘That’s bloody weird. You know what? Somebody’s put the muzzle on. Now I can understand the Ruler being able to swing the lead out here, but how the hell do those underlings up in the chalet get the cops to clam up on his murder?’
‘Could be they’re worried about the publicity. Remember, these Swiss’ll go to any lengths to protect their tourist trade. Just look how they covered up on that cholera epidemic in Zermatt a few years ago.’
‘Sounds just a trifle too pat for me, soldier.’
They drove for some time in silence, reaching the end of the strip of autoroute, where they rejoined the main road along the edge of Lake Walensee.
There was no other traffic in sight, and Packer was cruising at ninety kmph when he rounded a bend on the dark lakeside and saw in his headlamps, directly in front of him, the back of an unlit panel-truck. He twitched the wheel to the left and slammed on the brakes, throwing Ryderbeit out of his seat and crushing his cigar in a shower of flaming ash against the windscreen.
The Fiat’s wing clipped the rear corner of the truck, and Ryderbeit yelled, ‘Bastard! Don’t stop — it’s his own bloody fault!’
But Packer had to stop. He felt the whole car nimble and the power-steering began to swerve wildly under his hands. The car was slewing across the road in a bumpy skid, away from the lakeside, and stopped with a violent jolt against the left-hand bank. Ryderbeit yelled, ‘Lights — out!’ — and as Packer groped for the switch, Ryderbeit slid down on his knees and grabbed Packer round the waist. ‘Down!’
Packer squeezed himself beneath the wheel, kneeling under the dashboard. ‘Easy,’ Ryderbeit whispered. ‘We’ll get out my door — then lie flat as a corpse.’
As he spoke, there was a crack and a splintering of glass. The rear window smashed and something thumped into the back of Packer’s seat. Ryderbeit had
